by Autumn Rose
“All right, I will do that,” Nora promised.
“Come, we had better get back before Sophy has exhausted Nellie,” Simon joked. He stood up and reached his hand toward Nora. She took it and he pulled her up. He reached down and felt gently for her face, wiping away the traces of tears with his thumb. “I wish I could be more of help, Nora. You have had a hard enough time without this.”
“You have helped, Simon. I am relieved to have told someone.”
Simon let her take his arm, and they walked slowly back to the house.
Chapter 17
Simon was not the only one who had noticed Nora’s absence from breakfast. The viscount had wondered whether she was truly tired, or upset by something. He was unusually quiet during their morning ride, although Miranda assured him that Nora was only tired and would be down by the time they returned.
The Dillons’ visit was drawing to a close, and although Sam had not had much direct conversation with Lavinia, he knew she could be persuaded to the marriage. When they returned to London, he was prepared to let Jeremy place a notice in the Post and make the betrothal official. In fact, for his own reasons, he was happy to have Miranda brought into the family. It meant he would have reason and opportunity for seeing Nora on a regular basis.
He had laughed at himself, over the course of the visit, as he realized what was happening to him. Here he was, an old bachelor mothers had despaired of, who had been content to form a series of fairly long-termed alliances with available gentlewomen, falling in love with an unfashionable widow who was anything but dashing. He had long ago diagnosed the state of his heart: given once, years ago, in calf love, and afterward, disillusioned by his first tendre, kept protected and never fully given again, until now. He was not a cold man, and had had genuine affection for his mistresses, but not one had drawn from him the response Nora did.
He was feeling younger than Jeremy, as he watched himself hoping Nora admired his seat on a horse, or his intelligent and witty comments on politics. He had sung last night with great feeling, knowing his voice was good and hoping to impress her. Instead, he had, it seemed, driven her to bed!
She had shown no real signs of interest in him. But she seemed comfortable with him, which was a start. He sensed he would have to go slowly. The few times in the last two weeks he had offered to do the smallest service, she had refused, lightly, of course, but he felt a reserve and guardedness that went beyond independence.
He knew none of the details of her life, but it could not have been easy to support herself and her daughter. He wanted her to tell him her story. He wanted her to allow him to give to her. But he was nothing if not patient, and was willing to win her trust slowly.
* * * *
Nora was not as indifferent to the viscount’s presence as he thought, although she was certainly not in love with him. She had noticed how well he looked on a horse. In fact, she had been surprised that someone that tall had such a good seat on a horse. She had noticed the viscount’s observations in their political and literary conversations. Simon was slow and detailed in his arguments, while Sam tended to sit quietly and then dazzle them with a comment that synthesized the whole discussion. Somehow that surprised her, and after she thought about it, she realized she associated wit and brilliance with physical attributes. She had taken Breen to be more intelligent than he was because of his good looks and charm. The viscount was not really handsome.
Yet she often found herself focusing on his long fingers and the battered signet ring he wore on his right hand. Once, when she had taken Sophy for a morning, saying it made her feel like a mother again, he had offered to carry the little girl upstairs for her nap. She had looked up to refuse him, and then quickly down again, at Sophy, half-asleep in her arms, for his offer to help had caused a melting sensation she refused to acknowledge.
She had met a few attractive men since Breen, but the feelings she had had for him were dead and buried long ago, or so she believed, until Sam had begun to sing. The old ballad made her remember the bittersweetness of that reckless passion, and opened the door to a room she had bolted long ago. Sam’s voice, sweet and strong, took her by surprise, but she refused to attribute any of her feelings to the present. With Miranda’s situation, it was natural she should start remembering. But that was all it was, memory. She had not found anything trustworthy in Breen, and she could not trust herself not to be deceived again by her own feelings. And so, whenever she found herself more conscious of the viscount’s presence, or his humor or intelligence, she would immediately shift her attention to something else, thankful that after this visit she would never see him again.
The Dillons were to return to Hampstead in the viscount’s coach, this time with only a groom to escort them. Nora would not hear of either Sam or Jeremy leaving just for them. Their thanks were given and their farewells made the night before, for they would leave early in the morning. Jeremy, of course, was up to see them off, as was the viscount. While the two young people stood murmuring on the steps, Sam lifted Nora into the coach.
“I am afraid our plan did not succeed,” he observed, looking back at Jeremy and Miranda.
“Thanks to you, I believe,” Nora replied tartly. “Why ever did you invite such a lovely and unassuming couple as the duke and duchess? We all had such a comfortable time together that Miranda and Jeremy are more than ever convinced their love will easily surmount their differences.”
“And are you not convinced?” Sam asked. “I am, and when I talk to her, I am sure Lavinia will agree to the betrothal.”
Nora paused. “Yes, I do think their love for one another is more mature than I first thought. But I have had my own reasons all along, and I will still forbid the marriage, my lord.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted questioningly, but luckily for Nora, Miranda was almost to the coach and there was a flurry of goodbyes with no time for further conversation. The coach pulled off and both women looked back at the two men waving them off. Nora turned away first, although she was conscious of an unreasonable feeling of sadness. Of course I will miss Jeremy, was her reasoning, but she knew the feelings had as much to do with the fact that it was the last time she would see the viscount again.
Chapter 18
Nora awoke the next day with a leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could put if off no longer: this morning she must talk to Miranda, the sooner the better. This morning Miranda slept later than usual, so Nora was dressed and in her study by the time her daughter was up. She called out a greeting and asked Miranda to join her whenever she finished eating.
She was trembling by the time Miranda came in, looking charming in a dusty-pink wrapper, her eyes still sleepy and her face open and relaxed. How can I do this to her? Nora thought. But she had to.
“You wanted to speak with me, Mother?”
“Yes, Miranda, sit down.” Nora was silent for a moment, unsure of how or where to begin. Finally she leaned forward and looked into her daughter’s face intently.
“You know I love you more than anything else in the world, and I would do nothing willingly to hurt you?”
Miranda was taken aback by her mother’s intensity. “Why, yes, of course, I know that,” she replied slowly.
“You are going to be hurt by what I have to tell you—and you are perhaps going to hate me for it.” Miranda’s eyes widened, and her mother continued quietly.
“Miranda, you cannot marry Jeremy. Your father was not Harry Dillon, a lieutenant in the navy. There was no Lieutenant Dillon.”
“I don’t understand,” whispered Miranda.
“When I was sixteen, my mother died. My father, the Marquess of Doverdale, brought home a new wife little more than a year after my mother’s death. I was very lonely, Miranda, and my father seemed to have forgotten both my mother and me. The summer after he remarried, a young man called Dillon Breen came to Northumberland. He was visiting distant cousins, our neighbors, and I fell in love with him almost immediately. My father forbade the marriage and so we ra
n away together. To Scotland.”
“To get married?” questioned Miranda hopefully, unable to comprehend yet that her father was not the mythical navy hero.
“That was what we had planned. But it never happened.”
“Why not?” Miranda asked, almost harshly, as she began to realize what this meant to her.
“I was romantic, foolish, and thought that our exchange of loving promises in private was enough until we reached his family in Edinburgh. There, I was understood to be his wife. And then I discovered I was increasing.”
“Did you not wish your child to have a name?”
“Yes, Miranda, of course. But he was killed in an argument over a card game the week we were to have been married.”
“Why did you never return home?”
“I wrote to my father when Breen died, begging him to forgive me and asking him to take me in. He never replied.”
Miranda heard the break in Nora’s voice. “And how did we come here?”
“After you were born, I took what little money I had put aside and came south. I thought we would be safe here. I never desired to enter society, and thought you might eventually meet someone to whom family would matter less than one of the ton. How could I ever have foreseen you would instead meet the Earl of Alverstone?”
Miranda was sitting very still, looking blindly in front of her. Not looking at Nora at all, she asked in a dead voice, “Does anyone else know of this?”
“Joanna, of course. And Simon.”
“The duke?”
“He saw me upset, and was so sympathetic that I had to tell him.”
“Why did you let me go to Sam’s if you knew it was impossible? You let me believe we were betrothed!”
“Unofficially. You see, Jeremy’s mother and godfather were against the marriage also. We feared a blunt refusal would cause you to do something reckless.”
“Like run off to Gretna,” Miranda said, in a tone that Nora had never heard from her before.
“Yes. We hoped it was calf love, and if you were allowed to be together, you both would see the unsuitability of the attachment. Instead…”
“Instead, you saw we do know our own minds, are aware of the difficulties, and still wish to make our lives together. Oh, you know me very well, Mother. I was terrified at the party and at the viscount’s. But I became less afraid. Judith helped me tremendously, for she married above her station also, and made me realize that it was possible. And Jeremy—he cares nothing for the difference in rank. But in truth,” continued Miranda, “there is no difference in our positions. If you are truly the daughter of a marquess, then I am his granddaughter,” she said wonderingly.
“The illegitimate granddaughter.”
Miranda seemed to shrink from the words. “Why did you never tell me? Why did you have to tell me now?” she cried.
“You have to know the truth, my dear. I could not forbid the marriage and not give you the reason.” Nora watched as her daughter rose, and turning a blank face to her, said: “Yes. Well, thank you, Mother, for telling me at last,” and left the room. Never had Miranda looked like that. Nora sat paralyzed by her daughter’s repudiation, until she began to sob. Her tears came from a place deep inside, and she found herself on her knees, almost retching, as she knelt there crying for her daughter and herself.
* * * *
When Nora finally finished crying, she stood up and half-consciously wandered out to the old apple tree in the garden. She sat down, back against the trunk, as she had many times before, as though leaning back into her mother’s arms.
She awoke a few hours later, stiff and damp, and was struggling to her feet when she saw Miranda coming down the path. She could not see her daughter’s face clearly and did not want to, if it still held the same expression. She gave Miranda enough time to get inside, and then, shaking her skirts out, she went in through the kitchen door, only to find her daughter pumping water for the teakettle. Nora could not bear to look up and was about to walk out the door and keep on walking until she could go no further, when her daughter turned and saw her.
Miranda felt she was seeing her mother for the first time, this woman who had only, until today, been “Mother.” The hands, the face: so familiar and yet so strange. Once, years ago, Nora had been her age and fallen in love. Miranda could understand how love could change the way one looks at things. She loved Jeremy, and her mother was right: she might well have agreed to an elopement. The woman seeing her had been herself first, before she had become Miranda’s mother. And as Miranda’s mother she had done nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, she was a woman to admire. She had taken a small child on a long, arduous trip south. She had taken the work she needed to keep a roof over their heads. She had carried heavy trays and ignored drunken advances so that eventually they could have a home of their own. She had begun to write in short periods of time, snatched here and there from her duties as a mother. She had lived happily a life which had given her back very little, compared to the one she was raised to.
She looked so small, standing there. How did I ever fit in her lap? Miranda thought irrationally.
“Mother…”
Nora looked up, afraid of what she might see in Miranda’s face.
“Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you for what?” Nora whispered.
“For the way I acted. For not realizing what you have endured.”
“Oh, my dearest, it is for you to forgive me,” replied Nora. “Can you?”
At the old endearment, Miranda moved toward her mother, and Nora opened her arms. She murmured soothing noises and smoothed back the blond hair. She was comforting her little girl again—and she was not. For this lovely young woman had her own decisions to make. She might return to her arms from time to time, but this morning had marked a turning point. Never again could they be mother and daughter in quite the same way.
“Come, let us sit down and talk of what we must do.” Nora led Miranda into the morning room and sat her down on the sofa. Sitting next to her, she said:
“I was afraid you would hate me forever.”
“I almost felt like I could, for a moment or two. I found myself walking toward Joanna’s. She helped me to understand so much, Mama,” Miranda said.
“Miranda, it is impossible for me to regret my past when it brought you into my life. The moment I begin to say I am sorry for causing such sorrow and pain, I realize you would not have existed, had I not loved Breen. A painful and joyful paradox, I know.”
“Mother, what did the duke say when you told him your story? Both Joanna and I wondered.”
“At first he suggested I tell no one, not even you.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, I was surprised myself. I think he was shocked, but could not see the point of hurting so many people. I told him I thought the deception had gone on long enough, and whatever happened, you had to know. He could understand that.” Nora paused.
“Did he have any solution?”
“He suggested if I had to tell you the truth, I leave the final decision to you and Jeremy. I promised him I would.”
“I think I must be the one to tell Jeremy,” Miranda said, after a few moments.
“Yes?”
“And I also think, since it is his life and mine, that we must decide together.”
“I think Simon hoped you would say that.”
“Did he? Then I am sure it is the right thing to do, for he is clearly someone to trust.”
“I think you should let me help tell Jeremy. It is, after all, my deception that is responsible for all this. Then, give him time to think, for if he marries you, he will be continuing that deception. I do not believe anyone else is owed that information, and I will no longer stand in your way, if Jeremy still wants the marriage. I have come to love him too, you know.” Nora smiled.
“Thank you, Mother. I will write to him today, asking him to pay us a visit. And hope that he loves me enough…”
Chapter 19
Jere
my and Lavinia had left the day after the Dillons, but not before speaking of the betrothal.
Jeremy approached Sam first, the evening of Miranda’s departure.
“I would like to make my betrothal public and official, Sam. Do you see any reason why I should not?”
Sam got up and went over to the decanter on the table and poured each of them a glass of port.
“Here, sit down, Jeremy, and let us talk.”
Jeremy unbent a little, and sat down opposite the viscount.
“I would like to hear your observations on Miranda’s suitability as your countess,” Sam said. “Have you had any second thoughts over the past two weeks?”
“None. Oh, I know it was hard for her, in London, and I know it will take her a while to get used to managing a large household. But, you know, Sam, my heart has always been in the country. I will not be demanding she live in town and become the great hostess, after all. Not,” said Jeremy, after another swallow of port, “that she couldn’t do it. Don’t you think she is lovely?”
“I do. And I must admit,” replied Sam, “Miranda would be good at whatever she set her mind to. Will you truly not be bothered by the difference in family background?” Sam queried. “It will be remarked upon, at first.”
“I respect Nora almost as much as I love Miranda.”
“Well, then, here’s to your engagement and marriage,” Sam said, lifting his glass.
Jeremy flashed him a smile and they toasted each other.
“I knew you could not resist her, once you got to know her. That’s why I agreed to this unofficial engagement. Oh, I know you and mother hoped I would change my mind, but I think even Mother has come around.”
“Yes, well, so much for careful planning. But there can be no public announcement until your mother is also in agreement.”
“Can we call her in now, Sam?” Jeremy asked eagerly.
“Why not? We might as well settle it all tonight.” Sam would have preferred to tackle Lavinia first, but he was confident she had come around enough. And perhaps Jeremy could make the better argument after all.